


restless.

by pondscumms



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Choking, F/F, Fingering, Smut, vent - Freeform, yikes: the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 07:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17596721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pondscumms/pseuds/pondscumms
Summary: She never needed you. One of these days she's going to fly up the corporate ladder and you'll never see her again. If she notices the way your mascara runs when she looks at other girls, she doesn't say it.It's fine. All you need is her tight grip around your throat in bed and you can forget about all of this for a few merciful minutes.





	restless.

Who goes to bed with a full face of makeup? An idiot, that's who. But you can't let her see your real face. You can't. If she sees your dark circles, your acne, the discoloured patch of skin on your right cheek, she'll take flight. Some part of you whispers that she wouldn't do that; she's always so kind, so accepting of beginning cosplayers with the chunkiest, ugliest winged eyeliner that you've ever seen and maybe you can allow yourself to believe that she'd kiss the sunken plum-coloured bags under your eyes and tell you that you need to sleep more. But that part is deluded. It's preposterous. She'd hate you for lying to her with all those layers of makeup, so you can't let her see. You can't you can't you can't.  
  
You wait for her until she comes into the bedroom looking as picture-perfect as ever, her blue hair just messy enough to make you cross your legs under the sheets. She's wearing a navy-colored blazer and a blouse so white it blinds you. No wonder she's on so many magazine covers.  
  
"Mugi-chan! Welcome home, babe!" You sit up, dramatically letting the covers fall away from your body, revealing the luxury lingerie set you sneakily bought a week ago. Your pulse skyrockets. You went through three months of her ero cosplay Twitter to figure out her tastes and if she doesn't like this you don't know what you'll do. Cry, maybe.  
  
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking at you with an expression of dull surprise. Your heart sinks. What's wrong? It's not impressive? Is she tired? Did you overdo the body glitter? Is your contouring too intense? Are your lashes coming off at the corners? Do you look fake? Does she think you're fake? Are you fake?  
  
"How utterly surprising that a plain girl like me would return to something like this in the evening..." she finally says, casting you a smile that turns your insides into jelly. You want her to look at you like that forever. And ever and ever and ever and ever.  
  
Every time she comes near you, you swear it's going to be a fatal experience. You can see your pulse in the corners of your tunnel vision, everything that isn't Tsumugi Shirogane falling away into spinning irrelevance. You can't breathe, can't think. You can only hope that the blossom-pink lie on your cheeks is more appealing than the blotchy red truth underneath your foundation.  
  
"Hey, did you know? One good thing about dating a normie is that you guys always smell nice." She picks up a lock of your hair, twirls it around her finger. You swallow. Like she doesn't have you wrapped around her finger already. "Failing to wear deodorant at cons is truly unforgivable."  
  
She leans in, and you prepare yourself, because you know your elbows have a track record of buckling completely when she does this. She buries her face in the crook of your neck, where you've strategically applied a few drops of sweet floral perfume, and takes a deep sniff. You feel it happening.  
  
Your arms go weak and you collapse into the queen-sized mattress. If she had bitten your neck you probably would've died on the spot.  
  
"That's what I'm talking about!" she cheers. "Ah, I love your attention to detail. You're the best..."  
  
"I know I am," you say, sending a sly smirk her way. That's a lie. You don't know that. In fact, you're probably only about average, and when someone that fits her tastes even more than you do comes around she'll leave you in the dirt. That's why you have to make sure you know every last little thing she takes a shine to. "Won't you hurry up and get into bed? It's not nice to keep your girlfriend waiting."  
  
"Oh!" She lets out a sheepish laugh. "I'm sorry, I was so caught up that I forgot. Can you give me a moment to shower?"  
  
What, so she can work herself up in there before she fucks you because you're not enough for her? You pray that the rosy swatch on your lips covers up the uncertainty in your smile. "Oh, so Mugi-chan isn't a dirty girl, huh?" She blinks twice at your accusation and a blush rises to her cheeks. A blush rises to her cheeks. She's not even wearing BB cream. That's how perfect she is. "Sure, but be quick in there, or I'm gonna have all the fun without you!"  
  
"I—I won't lose to your right hand!" she blusters, and storms into the master bathroom.  
  
Stupid Tsumugi. Stupid, perfect Tsumugi and her smile that tortures you and her voice that makes you too dizzy to hear your own thoughts. You sneak a finger behind the cup of your bralette, pushing gently at your nipple. Gently. She isn't gentle in bed. Your own touch could never compare to hers.  
  
Even the lightest brush of her skin against yours is violent, something that makes you want to scream and gasp her name and beg for more and more and more. You can't help it. You wonder if it scares her, how badly you need her in those moments.  
  
She comes out of the shower in a cloud of fragrant steam and you whine with disappointment when she reveals that she's wrapped a towel around her torso. It's not like she has to be decent around you. Right? Right? Does she not want to show you?  
  
If you had a dog's ears right now, they'd droop and flatten against the sides of your head, because she's putting on her pajamas. She tidies everything up, shuts the bathroom door, brushes out her hair and works moisturizer through the tips, climbs into bed with you, and turns off the lights.  
  
"Good night," she whispers softly.  
  
Maybe  
  
she didn't like it  
  
maybe she doesn't  
  
want to do this  
  
and she's  
  
just trying to be polite as usual.  
  
You turn over to face your wardrobe, the scalloped lace of the lingerie set clinging to your body like a brand of shame. You're a fucking clown. You're lying in bed with her wearing layers upon layers of face paint and a stupid fucking outfit you paid way too much money for. You're going to burn it tomorrow morning when you wipe your face off and trudge back to your apartment to curse yourself for being a fucking idiot.  
  
At least you wore waterproof everything tonight.  
  
Mercifully, the first few tears that dribble onto the cream striped pillowcase under your head are clear. So are the next few, and the next, and the next. You've learned to keep your crying silent and still.  
  
In due time, she takes pity on you, and you can feel her pulling the covers over the tops of your shoulders and snuggling up against your back. She's too kind. A buffoon like you doesn't deserve her, doesn't deserve the way her arms snake around your sides as she presses sweet kisses to your shoulderblades. The steady drip of saline trickles over the bridge of your nose.  
  
And then she pulls your bra off.  
  
"Nn—Mugi-chan?" you ask, bewildered. The response you get is her hands squeezing your tits roughly, possessively. "Ah—!"  
  
"It's sexier when the lights are off, right?" She cups them in her palms, jiggles them, then pinches your nipples.  
  
Your body is buzzing with heat and you can't even tell if you're crying anymore. Even your tear ducts feel hot. You went through all the trouble of making yourself as gorgeous as possible for her tonight, and she decides to fuck you with the lights off. She infuriates you.  
  
You moan helplessly, her ruthless tugging and teasing sending feverish shockwaves down your spine. God, you're such an idiot. Such a fucking idiot.  
  
Your fury redirects itself inward.  
  
"Choke me," you blurt. "Choke me. Hurt me."  
  
"One of those nights?" she asks rhetorically, as her smooth hands press down on either side of your neck and a fuzzy pressure builds inside of your head from the lack of air.  
  
Your voice is pathetically small and yet it still robs you of much-needed oxygen when you speak. "More." More means you can't talk at all. Your eyeballs feel like they're going to pop out. Your right hand shoots down into your panties, the burning need between your thighs overpowering every other sensation that your foggy brain has to process.  
  
Finally pleasuring your soaked pussy almost drives you insane. Your body, alarmed at how little you're breathing, has started gaping for air, drawing out a bunch of disgustingly desperate, strangled noises out of your abused throat. Drool leaks out of the side of your open mouth and soaks into the pillowcase along with your tears, which are, in fact, still freely flowing down your face.  
  
This is what a pervert looks like. This is what an irredeemable degenerate looks like.  
  
The thick comforter above you is like the clouds of Venus, trapping your body heat and hers underneath it until everything grows unbearably hot. Her cool lips are like a blessing against your skin. "Did I say you could touch yourself?" she murmurs, loosening her grip just enough for you to cough out a reply.  
  
"N-no," you gasp. She grinds her knee into your pussy and you squeal, bucking your hips like an animal in heat.  
  
"Then take your hand out of your cunt." She bites your ear. "You're disgusting."  
  
Your eyes roll all the way back in their sockets. You're going to die. You're going to explode. You don't know how to take your fingers out anymore, you can't, you need this, you need it so much—  
  
All of a sudden, you can breathe again, and you take in a great big gulp of fresh air without even meaning to. That must mean that her hands are—  
  
"Tsumugi!" you scream, your back arching violently. She's found your clit and she's pummeling it cruelly with her index finger, not even giving you the time to recover from being choked.  
  
"Take your hand out."  
  
You obey her, trembling, your breath coming out in noisy sobs. She's going to fuck you to death and that'll be the end of you. She plunges one finger in and oh god it hurts it hurts it hurts so good you bite the pillowcase and whimper into it like a kicked puppy.  
  
You feel her sigh displace a few strands of hair hanging over the back of your neck and before you know it, two of her fingers are in your mouth, and you can tell by the scent that they were the ones being stuffed inside of you just now. She thrusts them against your tongue and you feel dirty. You feel used. Your cunt feels empty and you need her more than anything.  
  
You head feels light and heavy at the same time as you swirl your tongue around her digits, sloppily coating them with saliva. It's too hot under the covers. Everything smells like perfume. The beads of sweat dripping down your body and presumably hers smell like flowers and vanilla.  
  
A split second after she pulls out of your mouth, she pushes back into you downstairs, and there's no stopping the inhuman wail that rips out of your throat. Having her inside of you is too good, it's too much for a mortal body like yours, and you're shaking like a leaf in the wind. "I love you," you tell her. "I love you I love you I love you I love you I love—! Nng—!"  
  
Her knuckle rubs your throbbing clit at just the right angle and you cum without warning, letting out a high-pitched keen and thrashing your hips so hard you almost push her off of you completely.  
  
It's only in your post-orgasm oversensitivity that you realize how she's been grinding against you this whole time, her ample breasts pressed tightly against your back, her teeth sunk into your shoulder to keep her from crying out. You're going to have a hell of a hickey there tomorrow morning.  
  
You shiver when her fingers slip out of you, your flesh tender and responsive to even the slightest touch. She bites down harder. Your eyes widen as you figure it out—she's touching herself with that same hand, your fluids slicking up her entrance, and—  
  
She's much more subdued than you were, but damn if you don't notice when she comes. The thought of her taking pleasure in your body even after you've finished makes you whine, your body shuddering with the epilogue of your past orgasm.  
  
She lets go of your shoulder. It's still too hot underneath the sheets, and it's making you drowsy.  
  
"Good night for real?" you ask, hoarse.  
  
"Good night for real," she says. You can hear her pulling tissues out of the Kleenex box on her nightstand and wiping her hands off.  
  
You're too tired to interpret that small gesture unfavorably like you always do. That's why you know the afterglow as the period of time where everything is alright for a while.  
  
Falling asleep with makeup on is a terrible idea, but you think that this may have been worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi tsumugi TSUMUGI TSUMUGI TSUMUGI TSUMUGI TSUMUGI TSUMUGI


End file.
